


Moments of Weakness

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Severe lack of communication, Smut, but don't worry, happy ending guaranteed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-04-05 23:38:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19050826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sometimes John is allowed to have sex with Sherlock. He doesn't know what it means, because they never talk about it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This, like everything I've posted this year, was written last autumn.

Sherlock is always quiet in the beginning. The first time they did this, it scared John. He couldn't see Sherlock's face – Sherlock had told him, in no uncertain terms, that it would happen from behind, and if John disagreed, he could as well settle for his own hand – and without any other kind of input, he feared he was hurting his friend.

By now, he has learned that that's how Sherlock _is_. It takes a while until he can let go, until his steely self-control shatters, and it's John's responsibility to take it slow and make it good for Sherlock until the pleasure takes over.

He can do that. He can do anything for Sherlock, be anything he needs to be, even if Sherlock refuses to look at him when they are together like this, even if Sherlock prefers to pretend it's someone else on top of him.

Sometimes, John wonders who it is Sherlock is imagining. Sometimes, he's sure he doesn't want to know.

John shifts on his knees and pushes himself deeper into Sherlock, slides one hand up and down his back. Both of Sherlock's hands are tangled in his dark curls, his face pressed into the pillow. That's enough to muffle the near-silent gasps slipping from between his lips, but John knows Sherlock won't be able to stay quiet much longer. That, at least, is gratifying. John can give Sherlock physical satisfaction, if nothing else.

He brings both of his hands to grip Sherlock's prominent hipbones, and Sherlock shuffles his legs wider. John angles his thrusts downwards, knowing what Sherlock expects of him, and a quiet whine escapes Sherlock's throat.

John keeps his movements steady for a while before starting to pick up pace. Sherlock's gasps have gotten louder, though the pillow still muffles most of them. His hands are clenching and unclenching in his hair, and soon he will reach down to touch himself.

The bedframe creaks, and John reminds himself to check the screws at some point. It's not right that the bloody _bed_ is louder than Sherlock, and he's sure Mrs Hudson and the neighbours can hear it.

Sherlock shifts, shoves his hips backwards, and John realises he's allowed his contemplation of the screws to distract him enough that he's lost his rhythm. He leans down to press an apologetic kiss on Sherlock's spine right below his sharp shoulder blades and thrusts a little harder. Sherlock settles and makes small, almost content sound from the back of his throat.

A few more thrusts, and Sherlock untangles one hand from his hair and reaches down. On an impulse, John catches his wrist and pins it down on the bedding beside the pillow. Sherlock struggles, makes a dissatisfied noise, but John stills his hips and holds him down with the whole weight of his body, and soon enough, Sherlock gives up.

John lets go of his wrist, pats the back of his hand, and then brings his own hand between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock's entire body jerks upwards, away from the touch, and then suddenly goes pliant under John.

John resumes the steady movement of his hips and keeps time with his hand around Sherlock. Sherlock keens, one hand clenching on the sheets, the other still in his own hair, and then his hips are moving back and forth, and John realises that for the first time since the beginning of this … thing between them, Sherlock may come before him.

Sherlock arches his back, cries out and then almost sobs into the pillow. John strokes him through it, keeps his hips moving, and then Sherlock whispers, "John," voice rough and shaky and satisfied.

John is done for. The world goes white for a moment as he finds his release, gasping against Sherlock's back.

When it's over, John pulls out, as slow and careful as he can bear, and shifts backwards. Sherlock collapses on his side, away from the wet spot on the sheets, face hidden in the crook of his elbow. John wants to hold him, or to be held, kiss him, breathe in his scent, but he's not allowed. What they do is nothing but a moment of weakness for Sherlock, something John is supposed to forget once they're done. Sometimes he thinks Sherlock deletes their encounters and doesn't remember John can't do the same.

He sighs quietly, removes the condom, bins it and gets out of the bed.

He leaves Sherlock on his own and drags himself upstairs to his room, his feet growing heavier with each passing step. He's not sure why, but climbing the stairs feels more like falling.

The way Sherlock has said his name still echoes in his head. It's the first time Sherlock has acknowledged it is John in his bed, not some nameless, faceless stranger. He's not sure how he's supposed to feel about that.

All he knows is that he wants his name on Sherlock's lips again.

 

 

The next morning, John comes down to find Sherlock sprawled on the sofa in his dressing gown, looking sullen. He's glad he has work today and doesn't have to deal with whatever this is. It can be Sherlock being angry with him for overstepping his bounds last night, or it can be Sherlock being his usual moody self. It can be anything at all, and right now, John is not too eager to find out.

He makes tea and toast and offers both to Sherlock. Sherlock accepts the tea but declines the toast, and John isn't surprised.

By the time John is leaving, Sherlock has relocated himself into the kitchen and is standing hunched over his microscope. Something that looks like a much-suffered spleen is sitting on a wooden cutting board beside Sherlock's left hand. John makes a mental note to get rid of the board once Sherlock is done with his work – he will _not_ cut his bread on anything that has been in contact with one of Sherlock's experiments.

Sherlock doing something, at least, is a good sign. If he has a project to work on, his boredom, or anger, or whatever it is, may stay under control for a few more days, maybe long enough that there will be a new case to distract them both.

John says goodbye, gets a grunt in response, and leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock is nowhere in sight when John comes home. The door to his room is closed, and since his coat is hanging from the hook, he must be in there, sulking, if John isn't mistaken. The kitchen table is clear of experiments, but John has no doubt he'll find the spleen in the fridge. It's most likely right on top of something he's intended to eat.

He sighs and heads to the fridge to make himself a sandwich. The spleen is, indeed, on top of the cheese, but at least it's in a closed Tupperware container.

While he's eating, standing up with his hip propped against the kitchen counter, he considers ordering Chinese for dinner. He thinks Sherlock would be willing to eat that, if John could coax him out of his room.

There's a creak of a door, and then Sherlock's voice, quiet but clear, "John, come here."

John hesitates for a moment, stares at his sandwich as if the tomato slices could tell him what to do. They have no answers for him, and he sets the sandwich on the counter.

When John steps into Sherlock's room, he finds Sherlock standing by the window, looking out between the open curtains, wearing only his dressing gown and nothing else, as far as John can tell. John pauses at the doorway, uncertain of what to do. An invitation to Sherlock's room can only mean one thing, but usually there are weeks, sometimes months, between the times Sherlock needs him like this.

"Close the door," Sherlock says without turning around. "Take off all your clothes and lie down on the bed on your back."

John closes the door and then just stands by it, confused.

"Sherlock," he starts.

"Don't make me repeat myself," Sherlock interrupts him. "Be quiet and do as I say, or leave. This is not negotiable."

Slowly, John pulls his jumper over his head. His hands shake when he unbuttons his shirt, and he must try three times before he can get his jeans open. He's glad Sherlock's facing away from him, giving him the illusion of privacy, even though he knows every single one of his fumbling movements must have been deduced by now.

He toes off his shoes, lets his jeans fall on the floor and steps out of both, stumbles when his left heel is caught in the tangle of clothing. He can feel his cheeks heating and pauses, stands there, wearing his vest and pants and socks and feeling foolish.

Sherlock tilts his head a fraction to the side but doesn't say anything, doesn't turn around. John swallows, removes the rest of his clothes with clumsy hands, and steps over to the bed.

The bedframe creaks when John climbs into it. He gives fleeting thought to the screws before lying down on his back. He must fight the ridiculous urge to cover himself – Sherlock has seen it all before, and he can't hide anything from this man anyway.

Sherlock turns around and regards him with unreadable eyes for what feels like hours. John clenches his hands into the sheets in an effort to stay still. There's nothing arousing about the look Sherlock's giving him. John feels like one of his experiments, waiting to be cut into small slices, doused in acid and analysed under the microscope.

Whatever Sherlock sees, it appears to satisfy him, because he walks to the bed and stops by it, opens his dressing gown and lets it slide to the floor in a whisper of smooth fabric. He is indeed naked under it, and – John swallows – noticeably more aroused by the situation than John himself is.

"Don't move," Sherlock says. "Don't say a word."

John is not sure if he's allowed to nod, so he blinks twice and hopes Sherlock will interpret it as a yes. It seems he does, because he nods, gets on the bed and straddles John's thighs. The look on his face is thoughtful in a way John hasn't seen before. He doesn't look like that on crime scenes, or when his mind is connecting facts that appear random until he's created something that makes sense. He doesn't wear such look at home, and certainly not when they're in bed together. There's something frighteningly serious about him, and his obvious nakedness and arousal do nothing to diminish that.

Sherlock leans forward to place a hand on John's sternum, and John can't help twitching under the touch. Thankfully, Sherlock ignores that. He slides his hand down John's chest, over his belly, and then wraps it around still-soft flesh. John bites his tongue to keep himself from gasping. Sherlock's fingers are cool, but his hold is tight and perfect.

The hand moves slowly, the touch firm but gentle, and John closes his eyes and lets it happen, lets himself get into this. Sherlock makes a pleased sound and keeps stroking for a moment longer before letting go and reaching over John for the nightstand. John opens his eyes to see Sherlock take a condom and a tube of lubricant. Both items are placed on John's chest, and then Sherlock straightens, hands resting on his knees, and spends a long while looking at him, calm and steady. John wants to say something, beg, maybe, but instead he bites his tongue and waits. Sherlock told him to be quiet. He will be quiet.

Sherlock takes the condom, rips open the wrapper and slides it on John with careful precision. John closes his eyes when Sherlock reaches for the lubricant, and he's glad he's done that when a steady, slick hand starts stroking him again. The feel of that slick hand on him is already almost too much to bear; seeing it happen would break him, and John doesn't want to embarrass himself.

He doesn't want to disappoint Sherlock.

There's some shifting above him, and then Sherlock's fingertips tap his cheek right below his eye. "Look at me, John. Don't take your eyes off me."

John opens his eyes and meets Sherlock's. Sherlock nods, satisfied, moves forward, and sinks down on John in one swift movement.

It happens too fast, and John can't help the garbled sound that escapes his throat. He's thankful when Sherlock doesn't comment on it – it wasn't his fault, he didn't expect that glorious heat to envelope him so soon. He's doing his best to stay quiet and focus on Sherlock's face, the way Sherlock's teeth are digging into his lower lip as he adjusts, the way his eyes squeeze shut for a moment before he opens them again. John's body is screaming for him to flip Sherlock on his back and take him without mercy, but he stays where he is.

The bed creaks again when Sherlock starts moving, slow and sinuous, like a dancer. John has never been able to see his expression when they are like this, and now he can't tear his gaze away. Sherlock is smiling, almost smug.

John doesn't think that's the face he usually makes.

Sherlock picks up the pace, leans forward to support his hands on John's chest, cants his hips to find the right angle. His mouth falls open and eyes flutter closed, colour rising to his cheeks. He's breathing hard now, and each inhale ends in a gasp. John swallows and fists the sheets tighter, struggles to stay steady when the pleasure builds within him. He wants to touch Sherlock, wants it so much, but he knows Sherlock will stop if he moves, maybe kick him out and never do this with him again.

When Sherlock opens his eyes again, they are very dark. He's panting, lips parted, but there's still a hint of smile somewhere there. He slides his hand up John's chest, fingertips ghosting over a nipple, and John can't help it; his entire body jerks, hips thrusting up. Sherlock's smile widens, baring more teeth. The fingers make another pass over the sensitive skin, and John gasps and swallows down the plea that tries to crawl out of his mouth.

Sherlock's hand slides up, to John's left shoulder, over the scar there, then trails down his arm, the touch butterfly-light, almost tickling. His hips keep up their merciless rhythm, and John wants to look down where their bodies join, but he's trapped by Sherlock's eyes and can't tear his gaze away.

Long fingers close around John's hand and coax his fist to open, to let go of the sheet he's been clutching. Sherlock takes a hold of John's wrist, pulls his hand up and brings it between his legs. John's fingers wrap around hot, hard flesh without conscious thought, and Sherlock makes a satisfied sound. John moves his hand in time with the beautiful rise and fall of Sherlock's hips, his eyes still locked on Sherlock's face, and then Sherlock throws his head back and cries out John's name, eyes wide open, and John's hand and the heated skin under it is suddenly much slicker than a moment before.

He keeps up his strokes until Sherlock's hips still, and then lets his hand fall. Sherlock sits on him for a long while, his breathing slowing down. Eventually, John starts to tremble with the effort of not moving.

That may have been what Sherlock's been waiting for, because he lifts himself up, shuffles back on his knees and reaches out to peel off the condom. Their eyes meet for a moment before Sherlock bends his head down, and John is about to protest, but then Sherlock's mouth is on him already, lips stretched tight around him, and he must stuff his fist into his own mouth to keep from screaming.

Sherlock's lips are dry and his tongue is wet and hot, and John is too far gone to tell if his technique is any good, but it doesn't matter. His hips jerk up, his vision goes white and he's biting into his fist hard enough to break the skin and he can't even _feel_ it.

When he can see again, Sherlock is wiping his lips with the back of his hand and getting out of the bed, a contemplative look on his face. Whatever sort of experiment this was, it is over now, and John assumes he's expected to follow Sherlock's example, but he's not sure his legs can carry quite yet. Sherlock starts dressing, pants, pyjama bottoms, t-shirt, dressing gown. There's still a hint of colour on his cheeks and his lips look a little too red and swollen, but his behaviour suggests nothing out of the ordinary is going on. He must be thinking about his ridiculous spleen experiment already.

John forces himself to get up to unsteady feet and reaches for his own clothes, starts to pull on his pants before he realises there's still drying mess covering the palm of his left hand and his belly. He decides he doesn't need to wear his vest and wipes the mess on it.

He gets his underwear on and continues with his jeans. There are few drops of blood on the back of his right forefinger where he bit himself. He needs to clean it before it smudges everywhere. Bloodstains can be so difficult to get out.

Once he's finished dressing, he glances at Sherlock who has returned to stand by the window. It feels as if he should say something. _That was good_ , maybe. Or, _What do you want for dinner_. Possibly, if he dared, _I love you_.

He turns away and walks out of the room without saying a word, his stained vest clutched in one hand, and wonders how much of what went through his head Sherlock has already deduced.

"John," Sherlock calls after him.

John pauses but doesn't dare to look around. His heart is hammering in his chest.

"You can order that Chinese now," Sherlock says.

 

 

It rains the next morning. John doesn't have work, and he prays there will be a case to distract them. It's possible Mrs Hudson at least will pay them a visit. He will welcome even _Mycroft_ , if it means he doesn't have to spend the entire day alone with Sherlock.

He makes tea and toast, and this time Sherlock accepts both with a nod. John sits in his chair, tries to read the paper. Sherlock plays his violin, a slow, sad melody John doesn't recognise, and then returns to his spleen experiment. He doesn't speak.

Nothing happens.

 

 

Nothing keeps happening for the next six days. Four of them, John spends at work. He doesn't rush home, chooses to catch up with paperwork instead. There are no clients. Lestrade doesn't call. Sherlock says maybe a dozen words to John during that time, usually 'yes' and 'no' and once, 'you're blocking the light'. John tries to start a conversation a couple of times, asks about the spleen, comments on the weather and the news, but when the most he gets as a response is an annoyed grunt, he gives up.

He's not sure what he has done wrong. He wants Sherlock, so very much, and for a moment there, he thought Sherlock wanted him too. Like a fool, he thought he was something more than a living, breathing sex toy.

He sits in his chair and scratches the itching scab covering the small cut on his forefinger, watches it start to bleed again. It will scar, if he does that enough times.

That's such a stupid thought, he realises.

When he raises his head, Sherlock is looking at him, eyes unreadable. John gets up and flees to his own room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final edits, she tells herself, and then proceeds to rewrite half of the final chapter instead.

Sherlock has ordered take-out. Chinese again. He places the containers on the coffee table and tells John to eat before the food gets cold. It's the longest sentence he has spoken in a week.

John sits on the sofa and eats without tasting much. The food is probably good. It usually is.

Sherlock talks about his spleen experiment. John finds it difficult to focus on the words; the long silence is over, and the relief of it takes all his attention. He makes encouraging noises every now and then, and that seems to be enough for Sherlock.

When they have finished eating, John takes the empty containers to the bin and then just stands in the kitchen. He doesn't know what's happening. Are they back to normal now? If they are, what counts as normal for them?

He takes a glass, fills it with water, drinks. He's not thirsty, but it's something to do. Then he puts the glass away and goes to the loo.

When he returns to the kitchen, Sherlock isn't anywhere in sight anymore. John swallows.

"John, come here," Sherlock calls from his own room.

John does. His hands shake when he pushes the door open, and once he's inside, he hides them behind his back. Not that it will do him any good. In front of Sherlock, he's always naked and open, like a cadaver on an autopsy table, ribs pulled apart and skin peeled off, unable to keep any secrets, even those he hasn't known he has.

Sherlock is sitting on the bed, still wearing his dressing gown and pyjamas. He has one of his long legs folded under himself, the other hanging from the edge of the bed. The curtains are open, exactly as they were the last time.

"The door, John," Sherlock says. His voice gives nothing away.

John turns to close the door, but when he's done, he finds he can't turn around again. "I'm not sure I can do this," he whispers.

"You don't know what 'this' is," Sherlock says. His tone is strange in a way John can't quite recognise. There's a creak of the bed when he gets up, then the sound of bare feet on floorboards when he walks to John and stops behind him. "Do you not want me anymore?"

John squeezes his eyes shut. Something constricts in his chest, something painful and _sharp_ , as if there's a shard of bone trapped beside his heart. "I do," he says. It's a croak. "I always want you."

Sherlock lays a hand on John's back, fingers spread wide. It feels warm, even through John's clothes.

"Then come to bed with me." He shifts closer, and there's a brush of lips against the back of John's neck. "It won't hurt this time," Sherlock whispers. "Or ever again. Promise."

John takes a shaky breath and turns around, moving slowly like a sleepwalker. Sherlock takes his hand and leads him to the bed, starts undressing him, his touch careful and steady. John allows it without thinking. It seems to be happening to someone else.

When Sherlock is done and starts at his own clothes, John finally gets the control of his own body back. He reaches out, gently pushes Sherlock's hands away and returns the favour. He's never been allowed to undress Sherlock before, and it feels like an act of worship now. The desire to fall to his knees when he's done is almost overwhelming.

Sherlock smiles, pulls him close, and kisses him on the mouth. Another first, John thinks as he closes his eyes, and then the touch of Sherlock's tongue wipes his mind clear. It's tender and soft and painfully sweet, that's all John's brain can process. Sherlock's breath is warm against John's skin, and his mouth has the lingering taste of their dinner. It feels right. It feels familiar, even though it has never happened before.

They're both panting when Sherlock pulls back. John opens his eyes and realises can't see anything but Sherlock. There's nothing else in the world than this man in front of him. Sherlock _is_ the world.

The way Sherlock looks at him, eyes dark and soft and so very gentle, may mean that Sherlock thinks the same about him.

Sherlock kisses him again, light and quick, then lets go and reaches for the nightstand. Lubricant and a condom. He places them on the bed, climbs in after them and lies on his back, long legs bend at the knees and spread wide.

John takes a couple of calming breaths before following Sherlock. He wants this with intensity that almost scares him as crawls to kneel between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock smiles up at him, the look on his face calm and open. He hands John the bottle of lube, and their fingers touching sends a jolt of electricity through John. Their hands have touched a thousand times; it shouldn't be anything new, but somehow it is.

"John," Sherlock says.

It's an invitation, a plea, but John finds that despite his desire, he's not ready. He sets the bottle down on the bed.

"Why?" he asks. _Why now? Why not before?_

Sherlock explains. He uses long sentences and many words, but it all comes down to four: "I did not know." It's almost funny; Sherlock Holmes, not knowing something.

"Last time…" John hesitates. "Last week?" He can't form longer sentences, his mouth dry, his tongue uncooperative.

Sherlock looks at him. The light from the window seems to gather in his eyes. "I was exultant to realise you wanted me."

John thinks of lying on the bed on his back with Sherlock's weight on top of him, worried and confused and almost scared. He thinks the way Sherlock looked at him, and the way Sherlock ignored him, after. Anger sparks, and Sherlock must see it on his face.

"Have you ever been given everything you wanted?" Sherlock asks. He sits up and reaches for John's hand, their fingers tangling. His hold is strong and steady. "It can be frightening."

John knows that better than Sherlock seems to realise. He breathes in, slow. He can smell Sherlock, warm skin and clean hair and the faintest trace of cologne, and it's dizzying.

"You could have talked to me."

Sherlock's hand clenches around John's. "I'm sorry," is all he says.

John takes a deep breath. When he lets it out, he allows the lingering anger to dissipate with it. There's no point in being angry with Sherlock for being Sherlock. This is how they are, the two of them, after all, moving from one thing to another, one stumbling step at a time, not seamlessly, not painlessly, but like a collision that must break them apart before they can be whole again.

This time, it's possible that they can be whole together.

John raises their joined hands to his mouth and presses a kiss on Sherlock's knuckles. He knows Sherlock can read the forgiveness in the gesture.

"I want you. _You_ , John," Sherlock says.

It is the most beautiful thing John has ever heard. "I want you too," he says. He lets go of Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock lies on his back on the bed. John picks up the lube again and opens it.

The liquid feels cold, and John takes a while to let it warm up before sliding his fingers between Sherlock's legs. He pushes in with two, and Sherlock is tight and hot and he lets out a bitten-off noise every time John twists his fingers.

Sherlock's lips are parted, and his eyes keep fluttering closed before he forces them open again. When John curves his fingers just right and rubs, Sherlock gasps and then keens, his back arching off the mattress, and it's beautiful. Sherlock is breathing hard and his face is flushed, and so is his chest. It doesn't take long before he's moaning with each push of John's fingers into his body.

John feels he could do this forever, could use his fingers to bring Sherlock pleasure and be perfectly happy, but Sherlock gets impatient soon and starts twisting under him. John pulls his fingers out and wipes them on the edge of the sheet. Sherlock offers him the condom, the packet already ripped open, and John takes it, slides it on himself with hands that threaten to shake again, this time with the force of his desire. The cool touch of lube makes him shiver, and he pulls his hand away quickly. Too much.

He meets Sherlock's gaze when he pushes in, slow, steady, and Sherlock looks right back at him, eyes wide open, lips parted in a shaky exhale. It's so different from the last time, from all the previous times, and it's perfect.

John leans down to kiss him. He needs to stretch his neck a little, but it doesn't matter, because Sherlock's lips are still warm and soft against him, Sherlock's tongue quick and eager. Sherlock makes soft noises into the kiss, beautiful little moans and sighs that seem to fill the room. He doesn't close his eyes when they kiss, and John feels he should have somehow expected that.

They part with a gasp, and Sherlock wraps his arms and legs around John as if he wants to meld their bodies together. John holds on to him and thrusts as slow as he can bear, listening to the noises they're making together, the noises the bed makes when they move. He tries to keep his eyes on Sherlock's face even though they threaten to close, because what they have here, together, is beautiful, and he doesn't want to miss a moment.

He places small kisses on Sherlock's neck and chest, and on his face when he can. Sherlock is gasping with each push of John's hips, arching into him, and John doesn't want this to end, ever. He lets his hands wander over Sherlock's body, free to touch now, free to map each centimetre of smooth skin. It's all for him now, not for some nameless lover that has only ever existed in John's imagination.

Sherlock's hands are on John's hips, urging him on, and John gives in to the need to _take_ , thrusting hard into Sherlock. The pleasure is building, tightness and tension, and the gasps and cries Sherlock lets out each time John pushes in deep are almost too much. He's close, so close.

It takes only a few more moments before the pleasure spills over. John buries himself in deep and gasps his release against Sherlock's neck. Warm hands stroke his hair, and Sherlock whispers his name.

He needs to take a moment to collect himself, afterwards, and Sherlock doesn't rush him, hands gentle in his hair. When he feels ready, he raises himself up and pulls out of Sherlock, slow and careful. Sherlock is still hard, and John doesn't hesitate. He takes a moment to remove the condom, then bends down and takes Sherlock in his mouth.

Sherlock cries out and his hands return to John's hair, fingertips tightening against his scalp when he moves his tongue _just right_. Sherlock is gasping and whispering words John can't quite make out, and then he's arching up from the bed. His voice breaking over John's name is better than anything John has ever imagined. He swallows and swallows and swallows around Sherlock until there's nothing left and Sherlock flops back on the mattress, panting.

John raises his head. Sherlock opens his eyes, still hazy with pleasure. He beckons with one hand, and John leans over him, brings their mouths together. The kiss is slow and gentle, grateful. It feels like love.

They should have been kissing like this since the beginning.

"John. Stay," Sherlock whispers against his lips. "Stay."

John nods and lies down next to him on his back. Sherlock gives him a dissatisfied look, nudges and pokes him until he has turned onto his side, his back towards Sherlock. Sherlock shifts closer, presses his chest against John's back, pulls the duvet over them and then wraps long arms and one very long leg around him, and buries his nose in John's hair.

There are still things unsaid, words waiting to be shared, but John thinks that can wait. They both know that what they have together is more than just bodies, and right now, that's enough.

John covers Sherlock's hand on his chest with his own and closes his eyes. Their fingers tangle on their own, as if sliding past each other and holding on is the most natural thing in the world. John feels light, and happy, and whole.

He falls asleep with Sherlock's lips forming silent words against the back of his neck.


End file.
